come_sailaway | [Semi-Open] DYWTYLM

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[Semi-Open] DYWTYLM

Who: Wayne and CR
What: Trying to cope with the changes around here
When: Any time after leaving The Tube Room
Where: Throughout the ship
Warnings: Depression and existential ennui

Do you duck into deep blue safety? (All CR)
Wayne practically lives up on Deck Six, where he can get a decent amount of sun, soak in the hot tubs, or go and hide out down in the bottom of the pool when it doesn't seem as if anyone would notice or worry about him with everything else that's been happening in the aftermath. He keeps to where he can have an eye out on others coming and going when he's not down underwater. Which he is fairly often, likely to the chagrin of a few that know that he does this sometimes, regardless of whether or not they know he doesn't actually need to breathe. Nowadays at least he's got a relatively simple lifeline: A water-tight bag for his phone. It's not a perfect or permanent solution, but it's better than not having it at all. It means if someone wants to get ahold of him when he's down there, they can.

Someone may also simply spot him down there as they walk by, or do laps. His yellow kind of sticks out against the blue of the pool bottom.

Do you know what it is? (Close CR)
Wayne spends more time away from the rest of the ship now than he had in the months since his arrival. Call it depression, call it self-isolation, either way, the result is the same. He doesn't leave Cabin 144 for days at a time. At least he's clean, if a little bit cluttered, his bed remaining unmade most of the time and his cat figures still sitting on every available surface. There are even a couple of new ones, by now enough that he thinks perhaps he should label them.

For now, he simply exists on his own, sometimes plucking idle tunes without the need for an amplifier, other times simply dissociating in the familiar dimness of the cabin. He won't ignore anyone that comes to check in, but they may notice the light compression patches on his skin where he's leaned his head against the side of the couch or a wall for long periods.

Are you trying to live? (Wildcard)
Wayne looks lost, more often than not these days. He's been given a lot to think about recently, and all of it comes back to the sheer, crushing weight of the anxiety. It may have shifted in form, but it is very much something that he now lives with on a more present level. And now, other people know that it's a problem. Which in and of itself is a problem.

No matter where he ends up, be it the Lounge where he'll generally be curled up with a book from the library, or staring out of a window with the most dead-eyed expression, or at Sand Dollars or Stellar in the morning, Windjammer or Mikabo in the evening, or just up wherever there's a rail that he can sit beside, arms crossed atop it and eyes out on the not-so-infinite water.

It's getting harder to be (myself) (Closed, for Gil)
They needed to talk about things. He knows that. It's hard to think when he's not around the man, and he knows it's because of the attachment that he's long since given up on the idea of it being friendly or platonic. He's nervous, oh yes, but he also realizes that he can't just say that Gil is humoring him or playing along and letting him down as slowly and gently as possible. But he needs to know where they stand in the days following the head chamber, and the hourglass chamber that they'd awoken in. He needs to see him.

can I visit?

A message sent off late in the evening, when most everyone else seemed to be about to turn in. Nevermind that he's leaning against the wall opposite Gil's cabin door, wavering back and forth on whether to just invite himself in. In the end, he opts simply to wait.

I cannot hope to give you what I cannot give myself (Closed, for Crichton)
He'd promised to fix Crichton's shattered nose as soon as he had the material for it. Unfortunately, this had taken a few days thanks to the broken new system of restocking. Maybe not long at all in the grand scheme, but at least a couple of days longer than would have been preferable. But in the end, he's found what he needed: a cupcake, with pink frosting and plain white paper. He's already headed toward where he'd last spotted his friend, and doesn't actually think to take out his phone to warn the man that he's on his way. After all, he's got a cupcake! This is phenomenal news that needs to be delivered in person!

"Commander! Guess what!"

Smile back...at me...oh please... (Closed, for Helena)
He needed to sleep so badly, he had ended up passing out in his cabin before he could actually touch base with Helena again. He'd spent so long out of commission that it wasn't for another couple of days that he messaged her, already feeling guilty over the idea that he'd managed to worry her yet again.

remember when i was talking abt the cats in my cabin
and you talked about a larva

He's looking up at the pretty frosted crystal cat that represents her, now with her name written on its underside in marker.

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"This is something that I made, that I want you to have, if you'll accept it."

Into his hand she deposits what turns out to be a charm - a single pearl on a clasp, an object that she places down very carefully.

"Something you don't know about me is that I have an ability that lets me locate objects, if I listen for them. I can find people, too, but not without letting everyone else know about it and hurting them. But this, if something happens again and we have our things and it's the same as that time that the devices didn't work, if you have this on you...I can use that ability to locate this, to make sure you're okay. It's not some active tracker, I have to try and find it specifically, but it's your choice."

But she wants him to have it, to take what it means. A way that he might not be lost, or left injured, or anything else. A way to find him when it becomes needed.

He looks down at it, blinking at the trinket as he turns it over in his fingers. He has a feeling that this is something to do with his new habit of isolating himself at the bottom of the pool where he can't necessarily be easily be reached.

"Good idea," is all he says to that, and pulls aside the neck of his jumpsuit to press it into the more malleable flesh at his shoulder. It would stay there, even when he was separated from his pockets. "If it can help you track me down, would it make you easier for me to find too?"

It's that, but it's more than that. It's something she gives as a promise, a tiny piece of herself.

"I wish it worked both ways. But you'll need to find your own method of tracking for that. If you do, though, let me know, and I'll do what I need to make it work."

He's glad she can't see the disappointment on his face.

"I don't have anything that can track people like that. The closest I might have is the little figure, but that doesn't really tell me where you are, just that you're on this plane. When one of my friends here disappeared, so did his figure."

"There's enough people who know magic here who could likely figure something out. Or there could be some kind of technology. I know Security uses its drones, and I've heard mentions of devices...there's got to be a method that you can use."

It's never impossible. Even if they'll have to ask someone to invent something for them.

"We'll figure something out. I..." He has a lot of big words and thoughts for the way he feels right now, about her and about their situation at large. He shifts some, feeling the trinket pressed into him. "I wanna return the favor. You did me a huge solid before and I don't know what's coming next but, if you ever need me, I'm here. And, I want to be able to get there in time to help you."

Her expression shifts, turns a little more distant when he says that.

"You don't have to be obligated to do that, Wayne. I don't want you to feel compelled to take on whatever I have when you have enough of your own. I'm happy enough to do it as your friend."

It's not him. It's not, says her posture, says her tone. It's simply that putting something on someone else, when they might be struggling, when they might need that support - what gives her the right to be so selfish as to demand that? Distantly, she hears Darcy in her head, castigating her for not letting people be there and do the same as she does for them, but...

She never wants to be the reason he melts. Too much stress - what if she just adds to it? What if it becomes her fault?

Wayne is quiet as he moves about the cabin, putting the plush down on the couch then carefully taking one of Helena's hands, smoothing his thumb across the back of it.

"If you can do that as my friend, then why can't I? You don't have to just power through this stuff alone," he points out quietly. "I only got as far as I did because I had people on my side that either believed in what I was doing, or wanted to make sure that I didn't get hurt in the process, and I felt the same way about them. And...for what it's worth, you're part of my crew now too. I want- I would like if you would trust me with that."

He can probably feel the tension that settles in her hands, the way it takes her a second to relax under his touch. Reflexively, she still wants to pull back - wants to insist it's fine, she's okay, she'll pull through. But Wayne's earnestness is strong, and she doesn't want to dismiss his feelings.

It might feel like reaching into an open wound to dislodge spikes, but it's something.

"It...if you're not okay, and I'm not okay, who's going to hold us up? I don't want to make anyone have to set themselves aside for me. That's terribly selfish. I'm...used to managing, when times are hard. I can manage again."

The problem with living in constant crisis, she doesn't realize, is that there's not a good guideline on how to take a break.

Wayne's grip loosens, not about to hold her in place if she doesn't want to be held. Sometimes, words were enough.

"If we're holding each other up then we might be able to recover enough before we both break. I don't really expect us both to be perfectly fine, but it's not a bad thing to let people carry the weight for you sometimes."

He knows that that's a hard thing for some people, though. Helena has a familiar independent streak that makes it all the harder to just let her continue to beat herself over the head with it.

"I know. I know. But..."

Her grip tightens on his, her other hand coming to cover his, as if she needs the contact to feel steady.

"I don't want to make you carry too much."

That's really what she's scared of, in the end.

His hand tightens around hers again, the other one gently coming to rest at the back of her head, urging her to lean against him.

"Please," he says quietly, just on the edge of hearing. "Let me try. It's all I'm good for."

When she's not on the edge, she'll have to talk to him about that. Remind him that he's good for everything, not just listening. But Wayne lets her lean on him, physically as well as emotionally, and the tears she's been holding back, that have been building up, water behind a dam, start to leak out. She wants to apologize, she wants to stop, she wants all of them to stop-

"...I was so afraid."

Whispered like someone might overhear, but it's true. Without a way out, she was terrified. With people going, not coming back, it just built and built on itself. Building with the shouting, with the grief, with the inability to do anything, with needing to look like she had it together. Building when surrounded by sharp glass, when she didn't know if it would be worse to have reality collapse or to be thrust back there. Building when Helena laid her agonies out on the table, and got people assigning her things she never said, asking her questions she didn't have the answer to, when somehow they passed this trial - and what was next? Building when she has to admit what she actually is to someone who she wants to think the best of her.

She's afraid, tired, weak. She isn't the unshakeable figure of calm and hope that she wants to be. Crying hurts like pulling out knives, and she wishes she was somehow better at this, less apt to come to pieces. At least with physical injury, everyone can excuse tears. There's something to blame.

"I don't know what to do."

Edited 2023-05-16 07:46 (UTC)

Helena breaks, and all Wayne can do is hold on. Hold her together the way she did for him, his arms wrapping tight around her shoulders and pulling her in close with his face down in the part of her hair. There's nothing that he can do for this, other than this.

"I know. I know, me too." It feels shallow and trite to say so, but they're in the same boat here, literally and figuratively. He's just also had the benefit of being able to let people help him, where she's never had someone reliable at her back for long enough to feel safe enough to let herself just feel these things. So he can be that for her now, as long as she would allow it. Maybe she'd put him at a distance again after she's had some time to process and find her center again, but he could deal with that too, just like he dealt with everything else. Just like he dealt with dying.

His hand at the back of her head and cheek against the top, he keeps her there, steady and upright.

"So don't do anything. Let us help. Let me try."

It's hard, when she doesn't want to put it on other people, afraid of being too much. Uncontrolled, uncontained. Everything she shouldn't be. And yet.

She's been told it before, and she's trying to believe it, and it's hard, when she wants to be the soft landing for people who have to go out and fight. It's hard when she's used to having to move on, to not feel the pain from her wounds because adrenaline made her focus on the now now now. When the people she might have collapsed around have either told her that they're falling apart themselves or she's so afraid that it'll be more than they can stand, when she loves them so much she's afraid to leave blood on them where she touches.

And yet, and yet, they want her to collapse. They say it's okay, that she won't fall, they won't fall. How can they say that? Don't they know what will happen?

~~When did it become not okay?~~

She weeps, because she's scared, and hurting, and being brave had been so tiring to keep up. The last time she cried like this, she had been alone, huddled in the basement - but someone is here, and they are above ground, and there is no storm outside, and they are listening. She weeps because of that as well.

Eventually, she'll quiet, the vague sense that Wayne's shirt probably has seen better days floating in the now empty space in her head. It hurts like someone took steel wool to the interior, but it's no longer at a pressure to split open. But she still stays where she is, not wanting to jostle the wisps of peace that want to settle around her.

The pain and exhaustion are evident in every sound, in the tension in her body that snaps and makes it more necessary for him to hold her, not that he would even start to consider letting her go.

Not now, not ever.

In a distant sort of way, he's grateful. It feels like something is clicking back into place. He's useful here. He can be what someone needs, if only for a moment. He's not helpless anymore.

When she quiets again, his fingers card through her hair, and tuck it back away from her face, out from between her tear-stained cheeks and the soaked front of his new shirt. His eyes, unfocused and mostly closed, drift to the assortment of figurines, the unpowered TV, the notebook sitting on its shelf in the TV stand, and he starts to hum quietly. It's a tune like the one he'd used to try and comfort himself in the chamber before, and he hopes that it'll maybe do the same for her. It's less atonal now, an actual song instead of simple sequences of notes.

She shifts in his arms a touch, but only so she can rest a little more comfortably. Listening to the song, it's something to think about that's not everything that just came over her, the snowmelt needing to come out of her eyes. Her body is more relaxed, and when she does move for real, it's only an arm, extracted to pry the glasses off her face and drop them in the vague direction of where she remembers her bag being. They can be dealt with later, when instead right now she would prefer to stay where she is.

She's collapsed, but not fallen. The sensation is a marvel every time. As if that whispering ghost who tells her to control herself is really two worlds away, and not clinging to her heels. As if her hands can't find a place to grasp Helena's shoulders, when a friend has her in an embrace instead.

Like this, she could almost sleep. Nightmares might not even come to wake her.

If not for her small movements and the heartbeat that he could feel against the hand on her back, he might have thought she was falling asleep standing up long before she seemed to start dozing upright.

Wayne's nose presses to the part of her hair once more, and he tightens the embrace just a little bit.

"You wanna stay here?" he asks quietly. "We can sleep for a while and then...I don't know. Figure out what next." He could maybe get her back to her roommates after she doesn't look so much like she's cried her eyes out.

"Yeah," she admits, her hold on him not letting up either. "I'm...very tired."

Whatever comes next, it's a ways off. It can wait until after they've had time to sleep, rest, heal. She trusts that no one is going to come in here to harm her, that sleeping near him will be a safe thing.

"...should wipe my face, though..."

But that requires letting go.

He doesn't particularly want to move, but they need to rest. She needs to rest.

There's a moment's thought, and then a soft chuckle. He should probably change his shirt, now that he's thinking about it.

"Here, you crash out there and I'll find some tissue," he offers, only loosening his hold on her to once more lace his fingers through her hair and tuck it back behind her ears. His hands are cool, maybe a relief when the heels wipe across the reddened bits of her face that he can access as they are.

She nods, the passing of his hands over her face a sheer relief after everything. When they finally part, she'll have the sense to take tiny steps, not knowing the precise location of everything, until she finds where the bed is and lowers herself to sit on it. Hopefully, Wayne and Bastion don't mind. She doesn't take up much space.

By the time he's returned, she's lowered herself to laying down. Not under the covers, that would presume too much, but she's at least taken off her shoes for the time being.

He didn't actually have tissues around, he realized, but he does have a washcloth, and he'd soaked that in cool water and wrung it out hand it to her so that she could clean herself up a little bit. But as soon as he realized that she'd laid herself down, he instead sat down at her head and reached to run a hand up and down her shoulder. Bastion doesn't use their bed so he doubts it'll be much of an issue for Helena to nap here.

"Want me to get you anything else? Or I can let you sleep it off," he offers, figuring that the path of least resistance would be to simply let her be until she wanted to move again.

"...will you stay?"

The question's soft, but she still takes the washcloth if he'll offer it, will still try and clean her face. The redness from the tears in her eyes won't quickly leave, but she at least doesn't have to feel gross over it.

And right now, if she's to be honest, she needs him there. To sleep feeling like this, alone...it's inviting every nightmare in.

The redness would remain, but at least she wouldn't have to live with the gritty, stingy feeling. He knows that cleaning up makes him feel better, so of course he would offer that to her as well.

When she speaks up again, he smiles faintly, shuffling about the room as he changes into a clean shirt, a tank top like those that Gil prefers. He sits back down beside her when that's done.

"Of course."

The look on her face shifts to something relieved, and she reaches up, feeling for where his hand might be to hold it again, searching for that contact so she doesn't feel unmoored here.

"Wayne...thank you."

Words said to drown out the apology she wants to give for falling to pieces, to express what truly matters. Her own self consciousness can't override the fact that he needs to know how much it means, that she's grateful he'd hold onto her like she did him, so their flesh might remain on their bones.

She's still awake when she shuts her eyes, for a while longer. It'll take a little bit before her body lets that last part of guard go, to lay it down and rest like she dearly wishes to.

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